


A Shotgun Has Never Looked Prettier

by Dentss



Series: Dungeons & Dragons Canon [6]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Feels, Anonymity, Anxiety, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex Magic, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trauma, Triggers, Verbal Abuse, Violent Thoughts, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dentss/pseuds/Dentss
Summary: oneshots, lil concepts, etc etc. may contain multiple fandoms. little context will be in noteswork named after Charlotte Avery's "Death is an Angel"
Series: Dungeons & Dragons Canon [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1401703
Kudos: 1





	1. headlights seem so lovely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my wonderful boyfriend Alex](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+wonderful+boyfriend+Alex).



He didn’t know why he went out those nights, or why he went to the same place, or why he remained sober. He couldn’t blame it on his job, nor could he say he was distracting himself, because it only brought him closer to the problem. He hated the way his heart cried, and he hated the way _he_ would make out with a stranger, pinning them against a wall, touching them, holding nothing back. He didn’t know why he watched anymore, because every time something happened it hurt.

He tried to remind himself of the last words he remembered the man speaking to him, _you killed my children; tell me Wynn, did you ever think I could love you, much less care about you?,_ but even then his heart ached, and it ached harder with every minute that he imagined happening after they left the tavern, and it ached harder with every moment that he tried to sell himself away for money as he always did. He’d taken to carving out the hearts of the doves now, not just beheading them. He didn’t know why it helped but it did. He didn’t even know if the two of them had anything to begin with, or whether it was his lovestruck heart hoping for the best with every interaction they’d ever had.

But soon he turned back to the drugs to help numb it, and he turned back to forcing out his trauma to distract him from it, and he turned back to sex for a kick, and sometimes he forgot for a while, and that was better.


	2. as they snake between your quivering thighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is very fucking SERIOUSLY TRIGGERING
> 
> it's dysphoria inducing  
> includes r*pe/noncon, physical abuse, emotional abuse, gaslighting, manipulation prostitution, self harm, suicidal thoughts, dysphoria, chest exposure and touching, taunting, teasing about gender, etc
> 
> wynn is ftm trans. zolak is a cis male
> 
> just stay away from this unless i've sent it to you to read, basically  
> or unless you wanna read it
> 
> it's meant to be nasty. it's nasty. this isn't kinky, this isn't sexy, this isn't cute, this isn't romantic, this isn't healthy. this is part of character backstory and it's intentionally not nice
> 
> so really, please, proceed with caution

Wynn had one rule that was consistent no matter who he was with: the bandages do _not_ come off.

Just like any other night, he was walking home alone in the cold. He’d asked Zolak for company. He always did. It went the same as usual.

_“Zolak, can you meet me after work tonight and walk me home? It’s cold out, and it’ll be very dark, and a lot of nasty people are out,” he’d asked, draping himself around the Shadar-Kai’s shoulders. Zolak hadn’t passed him even a glance, readjusting his position so that Wynn hadn’t been in the way of the book._

_“Yeah. Sure,” Zolak had answered, uninterested. Wynn had waited for him to ask where he was working tonight, or when to meet him, but nothing came._ It’s okay, _he’d reassured himself,_ he must have just forgotten.

_Wynn kissed the bottom of his jaw, “Well I’ll be at Ulgard’s Inn, at around eleven-th-”_

_“You know, Jocelyn?” Zolak had snapped, shutting his book with a loud slam. Wynn flinched at the name. “If you’d just leave me alone, that would be great. Oh, and go put on your makeup. Make yourself look actually pretty.”_

_Wynn had recoiled, opening his mouth to say something but closing it again and ultimately getting up to go fix up his face. Zolak was helping with business, of course – he was the one that had told him that nobody wanted a prostitute with freckles, of course, and most certainly not scars, and it made sense, so he covered them with products before he left._

_Wynn had finished up, feeling a terrible emptiness inside of his heart. He had glanced briefly at his daggers but disregarded the thought._ I have work, _he decided,_ I can’t.

_When he’d walked back into the room, Zolak was waiting for him. At first, he’d expected to be hit, or kicked, or something of the sort, but instead the Shadar-Kai embraced him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve had a bad day. I didn’t mean to snap. Please forgive me.”_

_“O-of course!” he’d grabbed Zolak’s face and stared up at him, smiling weakly, “I would never be mad at you. It’s okay. I love you.”_

_“You’d best get to work,” he replied, “I’ll meet you.”_

It took him an hour standing outside the tavern, cold and aching, to realise that Zolak wasn’t coming for him.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. He just went about his walk, clutching his cloak close to his body and hoping deeply that nobody would target him from the shadows. Work was exhausting enough, and _fuck,_ his legs were aching really bad, but he’d be okay.

When Wynn arrived home, he saw that Zolak had recently returned too, and he was standing near the dinner table.

“Zolak?” he blinked, undoing his cloak and settling it on the coatrack, “Are you alright?”

He whipped around, pure white eyes shadowed. Flickering orange light framed his body in an almost otherworldly glow. “Welcome home.”

“Th-thank you,” body tense, he looked around the house, trying to figure out why things felt so off. _Is something missing?_

Wynn decided to go sit down on the lounge chair, leaning up against the arm and running a hand through his hair. Something was triggering his anxiety and he didn’t want to start panicking in front of Zolak – he wouldn’t want to be so pathetic. Zolak hated when he had panic attacks, and he didn’t blame him at all.

Uneasy silence settled over the room, until footsteps approached from behind the chaise. Wynn didn’t look up; he thought nothing of it. Hands ran gently through his long, brown hair, in quite a comforting manner, soothing the Wood Elf’s panic and bringing his breathing to a steady pace. Calm spread throughout his body and he wondered why he’d even been anxious to begin with.

After a minute or two, Wynn found himself slowly nodding off. It was easily past midnight, and after a long day he was more than happy to get some rest.

But then a sharp tug yanked his head back and he cried out in pain, easily tearing up. His heart raced. Naturally, he choked out an, “I’m sorry.”

Zolak didn’t respond, holding the wavy hair tight in his hand, pulling so hard that Wynn’s head exploded with agony and his roots felt as though they were being torn from his scalp. His other hand was caressing Wynn’s cheek gently.

“Please,” his hazel eyes widened desperately, “please, I’m sorry.”

Zolak gave one harder tug and then let go, sending the smaller man reeling. He immediately reached up to touch the painful area, trying to soothe it. “How much money did you make?”

Wynn didn’t answer, his head pounding so hard he could barely think. He brought his knees up to his chest, considering whether or not he should excuse himself to the bathroom or the bedroom. His options were limited.

Frowning, Zolak reached a pale hand around to grab the other’s chin and yank it to face him. “Baby, I asked you a question. If you know what’s good for you, you better answer me.”

“K-Katumira is holding-”

“You and that fucking half-Orc. You should bring it straight to me,” he scowled, “you know the current situation.”

Wynn turned, chest pressed to the back of the chair, reaching to wind his fingers around his partner’s, “I-I know, but I don’t want to risk getting attacked and having it stolen, I’m sorry-”

“You know what will happen if they don’t get their money back. You wouldn’t stand a chance without me,” Zolak held his hand, then took a deep breath and calmed his tone, speaking sweetly, “and out there, nobody would want you anyway. I’m the only one who could ever love you.”

Feeling a stab of guilt, he looked away and settled his hands in his lap.

“Hey, look at me,” the Shadar-Kai demanded, “don’t make me hurt you,” but he was so lost in his mind that he didn’t notice the words.

Zolak glared, then pulled himself away and walked to the other side of the chair, where he abruptly slapped Wynn across the face, stunning him enough to pin him down. He gasped at the strike and stared wide-eyed at the man. “You’re hurting me – please stop, please-”

“You enjoy what I do to you,” he smiled. _Does he think I’m being difficult? No, no there’s a difference- oh Gods, what do I-_

He watched, trying to use his arms to push the other away, but ultimately either being pinned back down or being too weak to do anything, as his fur scarf was removed, followed by his cropped top. “Stop that – please, not right now, I’m not in the mood, please leave me alone.”

“When you agreed to be mine,” the Shadar-Kai glanced hungrily across his slim figure, hands running along his sides, “you gave me the right to do whatever I wanted with you.”

“Stop, you’re upsetting me. Please, you’re going to make me cry, I don’t want this,” Wynn pleaded, reaching his hands up to cup Zolak’s face, “Please, you love me, don’t you?”

“I love you, and if you love me too, you’ll stop complaining and be good for me baby. We wouldn’t want to see those tears again,” he purred, leaning down to kiss Wynn as he slipped a finger under the tight bandages wrapping his chest and ripped it open. Alarmed, Wynn tried to pull away, but his head was already pressed back into the chair, and he was too weak to push him away. Instead, he let out stifled whines and ‘mmphs’ of protest, but to no result. Hands reached to grope the exposed flesh, and immediately Wynn’s panic spiked. He fought his tears, knowing nothing good would come of them, and tried to put himself anywhere else but there. _This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I’m just a young boy in Sleeping Bough taking a nap and having a nightmare. This isn’t real._

Fingernails dug hard into his skin, dragging him back to reality with a pained yelp.

“Don’t panic so much, Jocelyn,” Zolak murmured into his ear, “there’s nothing you can do about these. There’s no point being uncomfortable, this is just how it’s meant to be.”

“Y-you know I’m-” he spluttered, at a loss for words, “I’m not- _a-ah!”_ he cried out as teeth nipped the sensitive skin, “I’m trans, it’s not- it’s not comfortable for us, f-for me, _please_ Zolak-”

“Oh come on, you should know better than that. Tell me what you do for work, baby,” he demanded, playing around with him.

“I-I’m a prostitute, you know that already,” Wynn replied, forcing back the sob that tried to climb up his throat.

“Now – and you know how much I know about things sweetie – I don’t think a real trans man would let himself be fucked like you. You know, you probably just do this whole thing for extra money – in fact, didn’t you tell me that a while back?”

Wynn went silent. _Did I? But I don’t remember that, I’d remember it wouldn’t I? Oh Gods, what if he’s right? What if I’m faking it?_

Zolak continued, “You really like to practise the act, too. You can stop pretending around me. It’s okay to be a girl when you’re with me, you don’t have to fight it. You’re a woman.”

Being called a woman made Wynn want to curl up into himself and die. His arms itched. They always did when the discomfort got too much. He wanted it to stop. _But what if he’s right? I’m a faker, aren’t I? I let people fuck me – I just let them have their way for money. Maybe I’m just too far into the act._ “I’ve… been like this since before I met you, though…”

“You told me you were only like that because you didn’t like the way women were treated out there. You did it for your safety,” he explained sweetly.

Wynn didn’t remember saying any of these things. _But then again, my memory can be bad at times, right? It’s probably just that._

Even so, he felt so uncomfortable, and even in his mind the prospect of describing himself as… _that…_ made him feel sick.

Zolak kept one hand on his chest, the other moving down to remove Wynn’s shorts. He froze. _Oh no. Oh Gods, no. I don’t- I never-_

“You know, sweetie, I wonder sometimes… why do you let people stare at you like that? Do you like the attention?” Zolak mused, slowly pulling down the man’s shorts, and then his underwear.

“What? N-no, I don’t- it’s not that I like them staring at me. I-I only like the attention from _you,_ not anybody else, n-no way-”

Zolak’s hands moved, leaving him free from them for just a moment, and he was hopeful. _Maybe that’s all he wanted. Maybe he’s decided he got his point across. Maybe he’ll leave me alone now. I hope he leaves me alone. I’m so tired._ “Then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I did this.”

Fingers slid inside of Wynn, slick with some substance. _Oh God, am I wet? I’m not aroused. I can’t be wet._

“God, a spell would make this so much easier, wouldn’t it? What would you like, sweetie? Would you prefer for me to do this naturally or for it to hurt?” Zolak offered, but he didn’t wait for a response and a surge of magic pulsed through his fingers. There was a slick noise as the fingers left his body, and Zolak brought them up to Wynn’s face. “Funny what a bit of magic can do.”

Swiftly, so he had no chance to defend against it, the fingers invaded his mouth and rubbed against his tongue. Wynn didn’t move at all, too shocked and afraid to try, as the taste was spread throughout his mouth. When he was satisfied, Zolak hummed and started to take off his own clothes, returning his fingers inside of Wynn.

“Stop, please, I’ll do anything. We can have sex tomorrow or something, please just not right now, I’m not feeling well, I’m tired. Please, Zolak,” he begged, but it only brought him another hard slap across the face.

“Say that one more time and I’ll make sure you never walk again,” he purred, and immediately Wynn stopped speaking. More fingers pressed inside of him and he wanted more than anything to cry. He wanted to tear himself apart. He wanted to die.

Wynn stared at Zolak, waiting for it to end. He was sick of everything that day, and was more than prepared to just black out and try forget about everything. He thought the fingering would be enough, but soon Zolak must have grown tired, for he pressed something quite different against Wynn. He went to speak, then remembered the threat, and closed his eyes.

Zolak didn’t wait to fuck him. He was rough and brought his hands up to rest on Wynn’s face, “You look so pretty like this. It feels good hitting such a beautiful girl’s cervix. How does it feel knowing I’m going to cum inside of you?”

Wynn wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut and turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and squeezing them tight. He gripped the fabric underneath him, nauseous and certain he was going to throw up. _What happens if it leads to something? What the fuck do I do then? Oh fuck, I can’t, we can’t-_

Zolak grabbed Wynn’s chin and forced it to face him. He looked at Wynn with a smile, “I want you to face me when I impregnate you.”

Wynn cried. He couldn’t hold himself back any more. He didn’t want that – he wasn’t even sure he could live with a child inside of him, he wasn’t ready, and he didn’t _want_ it.

“Oh come on sweetie, don’t be so pathetic. Here, let me help you feel good,” Zolak leaned in to kiss Wynn and reached a hand down to rub his dick. It didn’t feel good to Wynn at all, though it certainly gave some sensations, but in that context he was undeniably uncomfortable. Wynn had learned that from experience. People could touch him all they liked, and they could try make his body feel good, but nothing overruled the brain in the end.

Even when he came, he felt such discomfort that the moans he would have otherwise released came out only in choked sobs. The heat of Zolak’s climax inside of him was enough to drive him into yet another panic.

Zolak saw this, gave Wynn a black eye, and went up to bed. Wynn went to the kitchen and did what he did best.

The next day, he visited a wizard to get the life inside of him snuffed.

Zolak was angry. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. It wasn’t the last.


	3. as immaculate bones turn sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for intrusive thoughts involving: murder, suicide, assisted suicide, making another commit suicide, violence, noncon, abuse, suspected abuse, and possibly more  
> tw for descriptions of sexual situations and prostitution

Flickering candlelight accented the room in a gentle orange hue, providing the only source of light, casting shadows across the walls of objects left scattered around the room. A Paraiba tourmaline dagger, and another, glittering with each small jitter of the flame. White feathers, attached to small bands, sat upon the bedside table. A navy-blue choker with a gorgeous unnamed gem, removed – though it was rare to see it detached from his owner – and unbuckled, sat beside them. Its owner laid sleeping in the adjacent bed, peaceful, blissfully unaware of the whirlwind stirring in the heart and mind of an onlooker.

 _Kill him._ He wasn’t sure if it was a ghost’s thought or his own. _Grab the dagger. Slit his throat. Save him. Kill him. Stop him. Wake him up, get in beside him. Kill him. Play on his insecurities. Look at him, so weak, so vulnerable._

He stared, eyes void of anything at all. _Leave before you do something horrible. You know you want to. You could do anything at all. Grab the dagger, do it. Hurt him. Hurt yourself. Look at your bare skin, isn’t it just waiting for it? Look at us._

He resisted for a moment, and then they said it again, and he looked up. Green silhouettes, caricatures of the people they used to be, stared at him, surrounding the bed. Some smiled and others frowned. Some were walking around, paying little to no attention to the resting elf. Some were leaning over the serene figure. Some were trying to reach out to disturb the peace. Some were trying to touch Valas. Some were clawing at his throat. Valas rest his hand on his walking cane, then he rest it against the bedside table, and phosphorous hands immediately grabbed at his wrist. Some pulled and some pushed. _Dagger, get the dagger. Kill him with his own dagger. It’s what he did to his family, isn’t it? Doesn’t he deserve it? Maybe you deserve it instead. Maybe you both deserve it. There’s two – one for you, one for him. No, protect him. Keep him safe. Stab him. Kill him. End him right now. It’s for the best. He’s a danger to you. He’s a danger to the ones you love. You must never let yourself be emotionally vulnerable. Look what you’ve done. You failed._

He took one of the blades and turned it absently in his hand, once again dropping his gaze to the wood elf. _Kill. Kill. Kill. You must kill. Kill him. Wake him up, if you can’t do it yourself, and make him do it. It’d be so easy. You’ve seen how weak he is. All it would take is you telling him. Break him down. Make him doubt himself. Make his self-hatred peak. Guide him in the right direction, make him kill himself._

Valas would have put the dagger down, but he saw Wynn stir and his eyes open, and he paused. It was too late to pretend nothing had happened now, for the elf sat up abruptly, staring at the blade and blinking a few times. He had no fear in his eyes until he raised them and saw Valas. It was as though the shock finally hit him, that perhaps he was about to die. _But you know it’s not that, don’t you? He’s not afraid of death._

He hummed and turned the weapon again in his palm. _Stop hesitating. Do it. Kill him._ “Fine set of weaponry you have here. It is… better on your side. It completes your look.”

Of course, seeing as it was the dead of night and awakening to someone looming over you with a blade wasn’t pleasant, Wynn was rather unconvinced. He was staring wide-eyed in half-terror. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“I told you,” he mused, though there was a sliver of tension in his voice, “though… of course I was thinking of cutting you. To see how you would respond. I bet you’ll look pretty bleeding.”

Wynn shook his head, and he sat up, pulling the blanket to his bare chest and rubbing his eyes. He smoothed back a few rogue hairs and patted the space at his side. “What’s wrong? I don’t like the way you’re acting. Sit down.”

 _It’s a trick, I bet. He’s waiting to stab you in the back. He has been for a long time. Don’t trust him. Trust him. Don’t you dare. Just listen. Stop looking at him._ Valas sat down with a deep breath anyway, as though he were about to speak, but he stopped. Then he frowned softly, and he looked away. “I’ve been haunted by the ghosts of my past the nights I have slept.”

“I’m sorry,” Wynn started, and he very gingerly extended a hand, staggering before resting on Valas’ shoulder, “you don’t deserve that. I can tell that they’re not just haunting you in your sleep, though – are you having some sort of memory? A flashback, perhaps? Are they here, are you seeing them? I-I don’t know if it’s anything like what I experience, but whatever it is, please let me be here for you. I promise you’re safe with me.”

 _That’s what someone dangerous would say. Look at him trying to lure you in. Don’t be so foolish. Tell him everything. Ignore him. Trust him. Trust him. Trust him._ Conflict echoed in his skull and all around him. He didn’t know what to believe, but did he ever? Valas kept his gaze trained on the fabric at his side, revealing nothing in his eyes. “Yes. Memories have been haunting me. But I’m sure they’ll go away in time. They always do.”

A sceptical sigh arose from the elf, and then he came a little closer. _Not safe not safe not safe._ He wrapped his arms around Valas and leaned against him, ears twitching just gently every few moments, reflecting the streams of emotions tying together in his head to form rivers and then waterfalls, cascading into concerned hazel eyes. He could tell that Wynn was buying it, but not entirely, and he was clearly unsure how to deal with that uncertainty. _You’re confusing him. You’re an awful partner, giving him emotional turmoil like this. Kill him. He deserves better. It’s okay, you’re doing your best. Stop caring. Keep caring._

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Wynn stared at Valas as though he was a ghost for just a moment, but he’d learned not to take offense from that spacey state. “They’re here all the time, for me. What about for you? Do they only come in memories, or are they moving around, telling you things? I only have a few, and sometimes one more will join. I think it’s something with the family, but I don’t know. No, they’re only people I’ve killed. What’s it like for you? Are they here now? I’ll tell them off, I swear.”

Valas laughed, and Wynn could not see past its artificial nature. “Only in thoughts and memories. Not actual ghosts, though I am sorry it happens to you. It must be awful.”

For a moment, slight melancholy washed over the younger man’s face. _He’s disappointed, isn’t he? He was really hoping he wasn’t the only one. Look at you, lying to him like this. Awful. So rude. In fact, you’re abusive. Isn’t that right? You always have been. Always will be. Kill yourself before you do something even worse._ But the worst part was that they were right that Wynn was disappointed, and perhaps Valas felt the slightest bit guilty for lying, but at the same time he didn’t. Here he was, giving his partner hope, then snuffing out a rare spark of it. The ghosts were crowding around, more so than before, intrigued by what was going on. He wanted them all to leave, just for once, just to allow a moment of serenity. They never did, of course, but he could wish.

Wynn didn’t speak again for some time, almost as though he’d built himself up a little, like a child too poor to afford candy but scouting out the store anyway. He deflated, holding onto Valas limply, and he crawled to fully sit in his lap, resting his head in the crook of the dark elf’s neck. After great hesitance, Wynn let out a small murmur. “Sorry if I looked a bit… yeah. I was kind of… I don’t know, it’s weird not having anybody to relate to. Anyway, what’s wrong? Tell me all about it, I want to help. Or don’t; we can just hug.”

“I’d rather not speak of it.” Valas hummed. “I have to get up. It’s the middle of the night but my job is never complete.”

Wynn clung to him. “No, you don’t. We can finish it off in the morning, whatever it is. Stay with me. You’re clearly dealing with a lot right now. Just wait until everything calms down. What is it that troubles you?”

 _I can’t stay, there is a lot I must do, and it cannot wait for now. And anyway, doing things that distract me helps me._ Valas wondered for a second if he’d relayed the words, but Wynn’s silence implied otherwise, and he considered it for a moment. He knew that the wood elf was insistent, and that no matter what he chose he would most likely end up in Wynn’s company anyway, but perhaps there was a way he could deter him. Valas was far too hesitant to allow Wynn to know anything about the ghosts, so that was out of the picture entirely, even if it might give the elf something to relate to. If he left it at the ghost’s response, he’d have Wynn following him like a lost puppy. It was true that he had business to attend to, as per usual, but he didn’t see himself getting anywhere like this.

In his moment of thought, Wynn furrowed his brows and lifted his freckled face to stare eye-to-eye with Valas. “Stay. Please? Come talk to me, I can distract you! Look, come here, let me touch you – we can talk about anything.”

_He’s tricking you. It’s manipulation. He can’t help you. This is stupid of you. You’re weak. Don’t fall for it._ Valas let Wynn run his hands over his face, and across his chest, undoing his clothes and exposing his chest. The wood elf hummed softly and smiled, deciding to start talking. “One of my clients was very funny, you know. I remember I was taken back to his place, and he starts going off about tentacles, and I was very confused – I didn’t get told anything about that kind of thing. So we get to the bedroom, and I’m doing everything I’m paid to do, and I’m being absolutely fantastic about it, and he grabs me and grabs a broom and I am filled with fucking fear, and he comes at me with it absolutely ready to fuck me with it, and I tell you Valas I have never been more afraid in my whole life. No, that’s a lie-” he paused for a moment, clearly getting very into the story, “but yes, so I’m laying there on my back, and I’m watching him get closer, and I feel the handle, and I’m like, ‘oh shit me, I’m not getting fucked with a broom today’ and so I get up and cover myself and I throw a candle at him, and he gets turned on by it. And he’s like, ‘oh sweetheart do that again, I love the pain’ and I’m horrified, and he gets closer, and I’m panicking because I don’t know whether to continue for the money or run the fuck away. He then realises the broom approach isn’t going to work, and he takes his tail – he was a Tiefling, I forgot to mention – and he fucks me with his tail like it’s a tentacle, and it felt kind of good, but I tell you Valas, I _tell_ you, it was weird as shit-“

“Okay, you can stop there.” He swiftly cut off the story, unsure as to why Wynn’s first idea of distraction was to talk about his prostitution, but it was mildly amusing at most, and wasn't all that bad of an idea to distract him.

“Well I don’t know what else to talk about because it’s the middle of the night, so how about we go out? We could dance under the stars or go to one of those all-night diners for people who are passing through. How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Oh Valas, please do make time to eat. You worry me.” Wynn rambled, and he peeled himself away from the dark elf, getting out from under the covers.

The skinny man was nobody to talk, for he didn’t get much chance to eat at all, though he supposed that wasn’t by choice. Wynn was gorgeous – an elf standing at about five foot and four inches with beautiful wavy hair falling just barely to the bottom of his back. His back was marked with the wings of a dove, forming dark peach lines like scars running all the way from the crook of his back to his wrists and his lower back, leaving beautiful feathers fanning out across his skin. Freckles were littered all over his body like stars, covering his face and his neck, his chest and shoulders, his back and his thighs. There were three notable scars, one slashed across his nose and cheek, deep wounds on his chest, and one deep wound on his upper forearm. There were many other smaller scars upon his figure. He wasn’t in anything when he stood up, and Valas hated the things that the ghosts started to say to him. They were vile.

_You could go over there right now and take advantage of him, you know that? Wouldn’t you like that? Like you liked what your father did, right? Go over there and make him cry, and keep going, even when he begs you to stop. You know you want to. Take it out on him, Valas._

Valas felt sick at the thought of taking advantage of Wynn. He couldn’t force himself on the elf. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t watch as Wynn got dressed, trying to block out the ghosts but to no avail, but his attention was drawn when the wood elf twitched and lashed out at some unseen force. He let out a deep sigh and regained his composure, starting to get dressed. It was going to be a difficult night.


	4. as you can no longer flutter your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for death and gore  
> tw as this is written from the perspective of a father finding his son dead

Regus finds Corvus’ body out in a field of narcissus, thistle, and wormwood.

It feels too much like a sick joke, that his first son should be laid out in such a place so disrespectfully, plants and flowers curling around him, mocking him. There is not a rose in sight, nothing but cruelty and bitterness.

It takes him a few moments to process the sight before him. Corvus, the ever-elegant Corvus, is propped up against a tree stump, head lolling to the side and his eyes closed. His white hair flows as gracefully as it always has across his shoulders and over his back. It looks as though his earrings had been ripped from his ears as they are torn and bloodied, much alike his own. Corvus’ brilliant peacock wings and tailfeathers are sprawled out limply at his sides, feathers the only vibrant display in the dull field. Regus runs his hands along them, checking for missing feathers, but they are perfectly intact and soft, seemingly untouched.

Corvus’ luxurious robes have been viciously ripped, leaving them draping over his arms and waist, his upper body completely bare. Everything there has been exposed. He is torn apart and covered in now dried blood, his ribs visible and cracked. His organs are hanging from the severe gashes, scratched and in some places split. Regus can’t help but reach out, running fingertips along the freezing cold edge of the wounds, then slightly inwards. It’s all been torn by hand. Judging by Corvus’ hands, it was by his own.

But he’s never been suicidal. The only way he would be able to die would be by his own hand, and he wouldn’t have done it somewhere so public. So it was certainly murder, and Regus clocks exactly how it was carried out with ease. He balls his hands into fists and falls to his knees in front of the corpse, gently reaching out and pulling Corvus’ lifeless body close by his shoulders, holding it as though there is still a spark of life somewhere inside of him. But he doesn’t move or breathe or blink. He’s gone, completely gone.

Regus knows his son has never been a saint. No, he’s far from it. He’d erased some of the memories of the terrible things he’s seen Corvus do. He’d pushed others to the back of his mind and denied them, because this is his first son. He worked so hard on him, loved him so much, and seeing Corvus grow into something unbearable was impossible to cope with. So he didn’t.

But did he deserve such a cruel fate? Laying him down in these flowers and weeds seemed all too much. It’d be better to find him in an alleyway or his bedroom than in this very field.

Regus cries against his son’s skin, burning it and his own with their acid. He doesn’t think to call on Lucifer or anyone he knows, because he knows Corvus means not even half as much to them, if anything at all. He’s alone in his mourning and it wouldn’t take asking for company to find that out, so he stays in the field for hours.

Before he leaves, Regus spreads his own wings and at his will a gust of air batters the field. The narcissus turns to white tulips and the weeds to white heather. It will not erase the insult, but it will in return send one back. Changing his form, he carries Corvus back to the palace to rest at last, his body filled with roses rather than useless, broken organs, and not once do his tears dry, for he will never forget the day he found his son drowned in narcissus, thistle, and wormwood.


	5. forgot the next line ill get it soon lol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fawn's backstory (by wynn)

Fawn was born under a different name to a mostly loving Moon Elf family that lived tucked away in the slums of an otherwise rich city. From the very start, the world was against them. They barely had enough money to make it day-to-day and Fawn was forced to grow up very quickly, running errands and doing work for shady people in order to rake in money to help his family when he was a young child.

He’d been raised (uneasily) as a girl his entire life, and when he grew old enough to start maturing, his dysphoria became very vivid and troubling. When he brought up the idea of a person uncomfortable in their gender, his family rejected the idea deeply, but their discussion taught him that being trans was a thing. He justified himself by saying it was curiosity, and kept it quiet, despite how it tore him apart.

When he started to think for himself, he started to grow more hostile towards figures of power, bitter about how much control they had and how they were so unwilling to help anyone. He grew more angry at the very existence of the slums when all the overly-rich people lived a mere district away. He started to become mad at being viewed as less human for being less wealthy.

This anger only festered as he grew up, until he started conspiring against the higher-ups. He started small, stealing and pickpocketing in the darkness, a petty thief. He started to see more cruelty, seeing what people did to thieves just trying to survive.

Fawn broke the day he saw a young child get dragged into the streets for stealing food for his family. He watched as they cut off the child’s fingers, and it ignited a new rage.

After that instance, he started to rally the people of the slums. It was a frail alliance, and a very small one too, but together they started to fight back in small ways. They’d go to steal from the markets, whilst others would gain the favour of the rich, slowly working up as much food and money as they could to try supporting their families and other families where possible.

Fawn was one of the few that got somewhere with the popularity. He ran errands for them, just as he had when he was younger, and started to do their dirty work, usually related to substance trading, especially illegal ones. This brought his name higher up in the social circles, and whilst he was still looked down upon he was treated as useful. He was able to bring back money to the slums, and especially to his poor family. He began to buy his own clothes, presenting in a more masculine manner. He was certain nobody would notice.

This is where he began to learn secrets about the people in control of the general area. Dark dealings started to uncover, assassinations and silencing and all sorts of hired atrocities started to come to light. And to make it worse? The rich simply accepted and encouraged it.

He brought the information back to the slums, but they were terrified at the idea of a revolt, and unwilling to step further than their thievery and work for the rich, all except a small few that helped him set up shop in an abandoned, supposedly haunted home at the far back of the city, shunned by citizens: the perfect centre of operation.

Together they started to piece together strange happenings, especially against the poor folk of the city, even going to far as to put themselves in risky situations to gather information. _Damning_ information.

One of the small group’s members was caught spying, and instead of taking just him in, the guards took torches to the poorest parts of the slums, burning down houses and killing those trying to escape. A battle between the guards and the people ensued, and as anyone would Fawn fought viciously, leading the efforts with his acquired leadership. They lost overwhelmingly to the well-armed guards, and were forced to surrender and scatter back into their homes.

Everyone was terrified into silence, and even Fawn’s close group disbanded, all but one girl willing to continue working with him, on one condition: they started to use the information they’d gathered.

First he tried to talk to his people, but they all rejected him. They told him that they didn’t see him as one of their own anymore, not since he’d started to dress and eat better with the money he’d kept from his endeavours. His family, considered a part of these better-off people, cast him aside, pointing out his clothing and his presentation, throwing slurs his way and telling him to stay far away from them.

Fawn felt betrayed. After all he’d done for them, how could they reject him? How could they turn him away after all the money and food he’d brought back? How could one cruel act from the higher-ups bring them to turn away their _saviour?_

He told himself that he was better off without them, and started to sink into an idea that they were just blind and foolish, and that he was doing the work of Gods.

Desperate to prove himself, he started to become more violent, starting to anonymously take out guards and cruel rich folk with the help of his only friend. They would blackmail others into silence, threaten them for secrets, gradually spreading fear and distrust across the upper classes. Rumours about those in control started to spread across the rich folk, and talk of a coup started to arise.

The people in control started to appear in an attempt to clear their name and ease the unrest among the citizens, but Fawn only dug it in harder, starting to gather proof of the wrongdoings, even going as far as to break into the homes of officials to find letters and papers. He made these public, pinning them to news boards and sending them to news agencies. The word spread and people started to worship him and his friend as some saviour, feeding into his belief that he was doing the work of Gods, and that nobody understood him.

This grew and grew, and he started to become more fixated on uncovering lies, his entire life surrounding it. He separated himself from the people he first meant to protect, his sights focusing solely on gaining control, wanting to become one of the people controlling the city so he could make things right.

His friend saw this, and cut ties with him. She told him that she couldn’t work with him if he’d forgotten everything about why they were doing this, and who they were doing it for. She told him she didn’t even know him anymore, and left. Fawn was, this time, completely alone.

Still barely a young adult by human standards, the isolation allowed him to become completely consumed in the secrets, and he told himself he didn’t need anyone, especially not her. Everything that happened became a part of a great web that he was trying to pick apart, and he fixated for hours on figuring out completely unrelated incidents. He convinced himself that his friend was working for them, and that he wasn’t safe, and his identity wasn’t safe anymore. He hung unto the fact that only the people he grew up with had seen his face – not even the rich people he worked for to gain secrets had seen his true face.

When he wasn’t doing this, he was working himself into the favour of those in control, using his rich connections to get him into parties. Nobody knew his face due to his former anonymity, so this time he was free to show it, and now _all_ of the powerful folk knew it. Whenever they saw him they would greet him and talk about the goings-on of the city. He started to work his way closer to the one person in control of absolutely everything. At first, they didn’t have any time for him at all, but the people they spoke to were able to say good things about him, and eventually they grew close enough that the person considered him a ‘friend’, though in the same sense their councilmen were considered ‘friends’.

His sights were focused entirely on taking over now. He lured the person back to their bedroom with promises of a seductive nature, then viciously murdered them upon their own bed. The screams drew the guards to the room, but he was already gone, believing that he’d be called upon to be the person’s successor.

He was wrong, and it cost him everything.

As he sat in his hideout, laughing hysterically, believing his entire life’s work had finally led up to something incredible, his friend came in. He ceased his laughing and greeted her, opening his arms and telling her of what he’d done, asking her if she was proud and telling her he was going to fix everything.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes, and told him that they were coming for him.

His entire world crumbled around him. When he heard shouting in the streets, he knew he had to leave and never look back. He took his knife and ran, finding his way back to his former hideout. The place was destroyed, his planning all torn to shreds, thrown across the floor, burned. He couldn’t help but laugh more at the whole thing. He saw the fire of the guards’ torches nearing, and with nowhere left to go, he took the knife to his own wrists, not wanting to die in front of everyone nor by their hand. He collapsed into a pool of his own blood, gasping in laughter as he watched the papers around him turn red, their letters disappearing. The secrets were, truly, hidden behind blood.

When the guards found him, eyes half-lidded, they thought he was dead. In truth, he was barely conscious, barely breathing. They turned him over, stole his money and belongings, and then set the building alight.

He was ruled dead by the council, and was used as an example to anyone who dared rise up again.

But it wasn’t the end for Fawn. A small crime group heard the guards bragging on their way back, speaking of the news, and went to investigate. Whilst the fire was still young, they were able to check the body. Fawn was no doubt taking his last breaths, but swiftly their healer came to his aid, breathing back as much life into his body as they could manage before taking him, unconscious, back to their hideout, down beneath the city, far away from sight.

When he came to, he was naked in a lukewarm bath, and something rough was being rubbed against his wrists. He freaked out, as one would, and retreated, curling into a ball in the tub and glaring wide-eyed at the person, trying to work out what the Hell was happening. They didn’t look anything like the rich folk, or the people in power, but they weren’t quite like the people from the slums either.

The person explained that they had found him almost dead in the burning house, surrounded by blood, his wrists almost having given all the blood they could manage. They explained how they’d used magic to keep him alive, and that he should allow them to bandage the wounds because they hadn’t healed fully. Fawn tentatively allowed them to work, all the while staring wide-eyed, scared and paranoid that this was just another trick the council was playing on him. But the person was ever-gentle, and with a soft smile told him he looked like a scared fawn, and that they wouldn’t hurt him. Ever since being told that, the person referred to him as Fawn.

After being bathed, he was given a selection of clothing, mostly feminine to choose from. He explained, though nervous, to the person that he would prefer something different, and that his body wasn’t what it was supposed to be. He was met at first with confusion, but upon explaining his dysphoria the person swiftly understood and went to retrieve something different, which he accepted eagerly.

He was brought in front of the entire group, hazy and in pain, and asked questions about himself. He answered to the best of his ability, but when asked about his name he was stuck on what to say. He looked down, thinking to his birth name, and responded that he didn’t know.

The person that had bathed him patted his shoulder and gently, telling him not to worry and calling him a sweet fawn. From then on, the group simply referred to him as their own unique versions of ‘fawn’, with the person that bathed him preferring ‘sweet fawn’, until one day they suggested that he could call himself Fawn as a proper name.

He smiled for the first time in a long while, and accepted the name as his own.

After a particularly rough business time for the group, they were attacked, and the person that saved him was being attacked with a knife. He took them on himself, turning the knife on them and stabbing them to death. Once he’d made sure the person, now a parental figure of sorts, was okay, he went out and fought back the attackers with the help of the others, securing the people that had cared for him and making quite the name for himself. When the last person was released, allowed to escape to warn against attacking them ever again, they looked at him with fear, called him ‘boss’, and promised they would see no trouble again from that group.

The attack left the group demoralised, but they came together to offer leadership to Fawn, calling him their saviour, telling him he was sent by the gods as the silver prince, sent by the moon goddess herself. It revived his superiority complex, and he accepted the position as their leader. As he started to become more connected to the city-wide crime groups, he chose a false name, one to present to anyone he didn’t trust. He went by ‘Cervus’, another name for a deer, and his ruthlessness and experience in leadership allowed the group to grow and grow, feared and respected even by the council. Nobody knew who this strange new leader was, especially not when he cut his hair and covered up his old identity. He began his transition, further separating himself from who he used to be, and ferociously took up his space as the new crime mob leader, the new mafia boss.

The name ‘Cervus’ began to strike fear through all that heard it, and speak of him was almost entirely forbidden from the people of the city. Rumours of him spread far and wide, even beyond his home, bringing business from strange, faraway people. People began to fear him as a sort of God, and his complex only grew. He believed his past was a gift, and that he was holy enough to have survived it. He considered his scars a thing of natural beauty, proof that he cannot be killed so easily.

To the members of the mob, he was the young Fawn. But to the world, he was Cervus, the silver Prince of the moon.


End file.
